


you make me feel so young

by lettersfromnowhere



Series: never use last with us (romy fic) [5]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Childhood, F/M, Fluff, You Have Been Warned, like...a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersfromnowhere/pseuds/lettersfromnowhere
Summary: In which Rogue and Remy realize that childhood isn't strictly for children.(5 times Rogue and Remy reclaimed the childhoods they never had, and the one time they gave it back.)





	you make me feel so young

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DayenuRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayenuRose/gifts).

> I started writing this while I was in an especially melancholy mood. My brother is going away to college two days, and I'm starting my senior year of high school tomorrow - this week carries an odd sense of finality. It feels as if something is ending, and I'm not sure that I'm ready for it to. So, when I began this story, I wrote it mostly to cathart, and partially to reassure myself that I don't have to relinquish the simple joy of childhood, my innocence and sense of wonder, just because of the number on my birth certificate. Nonetheless, my mood abated, and I didn't write all of this in one day, so there's a bit of tonal dissonance between the earlier portions and the later ones. This is not intentional at all, and I swear this was supposed to have more substance than it had, but...eh. 
> 
> For @DayenuRose, for all her help in writing this :)
> 
> ALSO: the +1 section of this lines up with some as-yet-unwritten portions of my cowritten kidfic, "and we'll build this love from the ground up." No need to read that, but it ties in - that's where the kid headcanons are from.

**I. Blanket Fort **

It's a chilly, overcast, miraculously-unoccupied Saturday morning, and Remy should be thrilled at the downtime, but his mood is as dreary as the sky outside the penthouse's windows. Something about the ceaseless beating of the rain - never varying nor reaching a peak or trough, never slashing against the windows violently for a soon-dead interval or letting up at all - puts him in the worst of moods. It's one of the days when he feels utterly sapped of energy, barely able to drag himself from the bed to the coffee machine and finding that it doesn't wake him when he does. It doesn't escape his wife's notice - Remy's mood is a mercurial thing, but she sees this one infrequently enough to know that it means something is very off. 

At first she tries to act as if everything is normal. "Mornin', Sugar," she says, stopping to kiss the crown of his head before she makes her way to the fridge. "Hungry?" 

"Don't t'ink so," he replies, taking another forced swig of coffee. 

"You in one of your sulky moods?" she asks, her faux-casual voice laced with concern. 

"Not feelin' it," he sighs. "Dunno why. I'm just...not." 

"Well, you know where to find me if you need me," Rogue says, grabbing a carton of orange juice and some cold pizza. "I've got some readin' to catch up on." 

"Mmph." 

He continues forcing the lukewarm coffee down his throat, as if it'll help him shake off the dark cloud that's been following him since he woke up. It doesn't, though, and by the end of the mug he feels as drained as he did before. With a defeated sigh, he wanders back to their bedroom. True to her word, Rogue is curled up under the covers with a book in her outstretched hands, her tiny frame dwarfed by the piles of white linen draped around her. The sight of her and all those soft covers is the first inviting thing he's seen all day; Remy wastes no time in snuggling in next to her, resting his head on her chest. 

"Hey," she chuckles, kissing his forehead. "Think you're gonna sleep it off?" 

"I doubt it." There's a difference between this dreary sluggishness Remy feels and actual sleepiness. "Mind if I stay anyway?" 

"Yes, I do. Better pack your bags," Rogue teases gently. "'course you can. C'mere." 

He obediently drapes his free arm around her neck. "Maybe I have that t'ing where you're depressed in the winter. That'd explain it." 

Rogue knows he's talking to the air and ignores this. "You know what I've been thinking?" 

"This oughta be good."

"I'm serious, Remy!" 

"Okay, okay, what is it?" 

"We should make a blanket fort." 

Remy shifts to glance up at her. "A _what?" _

"You know, a blanket fort. A...thing, made outta blankets and pillows and stuff. Like a tent, kinda. I used to make 'em when I was little, but...I kinda figured you never had a chance to." 

"I know what a blanket fort is, _chére, _jus' never _made _one.Sounds like a lot of work, _non?" _

"It's fun, though," Rogue presses. "You'll see." 

"I just got comfortable_," _he complains, strengthening his grip on her. "We can't get up now." 

"Oh, no, not now. But...later. I think doing something a little childish would be good for ya." 

"We'll see." He can't imagine this _possibly _doing a thing for his mood, but why shouldn't he try?

* * *

"We're gonna need somethin' heavy to hold this corner down!" Rogue hollers across the room, holding the corner of a blanket in place on top of a bookcase.

"Isn't this a bit much?" Remy asks, appraising their living room. A layer of blankets is strung up around the room, extending from the top of their two bookcases to the sofa below. Off to the side is a pile of bedclothes and pillows, which Rogue had explained were destined for the floor of the finished fort - "so we can hang out in there," she'd said. 

"Remy, when it comes to blanket forts, _more is more," _she lectures with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Come on, help me get this done. You won't regret it, I promise." 

For a moment, Remy wonders why his wife sees this as such a formative experience. It seems...pointless. But he isn't about to tell her that, so he sighs and hauls an untouched coffee-table book about Egyptian art (he can't even remember why he owns it, come to think of it) over to the bookcase and hands it to Rogue. She drops it in place and decides the fort is completed - "but only the outside." 

"There's an inside, too?" Remy groans. "_Chére, _this seems like more work than it's worth." 

"Let the master work, Remy," she teases, grabbing the bundle of bedclothes from the floor. "Go take a break. You'll see." 

He doesn't need to be asked twice, gladly going off to do a whole lot of absolutely nothing when - after what seems like an eternity - Rogue calls him back into the room. She's turned off all of the lights; he only sees by the glow emanating from the blanket fort. 

"Try tellin' me this ain't worth the work now," she says proudly, gesturing towards the opening of the tent. He ducks his head inside and can't help but gape, wide-eyed. 

It's like a spacious tent, but instead of tarps and sleeping bags on the floor, Rogue has laid out their comforter, as many pillows as she can find, and a fluffy tan throw blanket she's always been partial to. Soft light from the candles scattered around the fort (fake, he's relieved to see) cast a comforting golden glow across its walls. 

"Think I get it now," he says. 

"I told ya," Rogue says, still teasing but audibly softer this time, and ducks into the fort alongside him. "It feels like being...I don't know, wrapped in a cocoon or somethin'. I remember making these when I was a kid and hidin' out in them during storms. Thought it was perfect for a rainy day, and...I guess it made me kinda sad to think that you never got to make one." 

Remy squeezes her shoulder. "_Merci, chére."_

He sees now that it had never been the process of building a blanket fort that she wanted to share with him. It was what the act symbolized that made it significant: safety, comfort, a soft place to land. Things he'd never had growing up. Things she'd become to him. No wonder she'd been so adamant. 

He lays her head in her lap and looks up at the fabric ceiling of their fort, his melancholy abated. 

* * *

**II. Swingset**

Remy's always been reluctant to show his hand; he's cagey and unpredictable and difficult to read, and it's hard for Rogue to say - even after all the years they've spent together - what'll strike his fancy. 

Like the swingset in the park they walk by almost every day. 

On one particular afternoon, he tugs her arm like a child begging for an extra cookie as they make their way past the park. "It'll be nice," he tells her, not bothering to explain what it is he wants from her - he knows she can tell. 

Rogue is taken aback - she wouldn't have guessed that _this _would be the thing he unexpectedly decided to latch onto - but she doesn't protest. It_ does_ seem nice, taking a break from their hectic lives to simply enjoy each other's company in a place that reminds her of what should have been a simpler time but, in reality, wasn't. So she lets him lead her to the playground, and they claim two swings. It's deserted, for a moment, all they can hear is the whiny rustling of rusty swing chains heaving back and forth as they rise into the air. 

"Used to hang around one’a these a lot,” Remy says after a pause. “I’d jus’…watch the other kids. They seemed so...content. Never wanted to join ‘em, though. Didn’t feel like my place.”

Rogue drags her feet in the wood chips on the ground to slow her swing, stopping so she can turn towards Remy. “That why you wanted to come?”

He nods. “Figured, why not? Seemed like somethin’ I should get around to doin’ eventually.”

Rogue smiles. “Funny, it’s still kinda not our place – adults on a playground. Fitting, huh?”

“_Non, _anywhere’s my place if you’re there.”  


“Flirt,” Rogue teases, a bittersweet edge to her playful tone.

She likes the thought – that they give each other, two drifters, a place in the world.

* * *

**III. Snow Day**

Neither Rogue nor Remy has grown accustomed to New York’s snowy winters, and neither is ever likely to. But where Rogue grumbles about the cold, Remy’s like a child on Christmas morning when, as they head home from a long day of classes, the first flakes begin to settle on their coats. Last week’s snow, slushy in some parts and crusted-over in others, crunches under their feet, and Rogue mutters something contrary about the atmosphere needing to get its act together.

“C’mon, _chére, _it isn’t _that _bad,” Remy says, holding out his hands and letting the snowflakes melt against them. Rogue stifles a secret smile; his childlike glee at such a simple thing melts her heart like one of the infant snowflakes he’s trying to catch. But she maintains her aggravated façade.

“I hate the cold,” she replies, holding her down parka closer around the sides so as not to let any of the offending air in. “And the snow’s too inconvenient.”

“It’s fun,” Remy tells her, scooping a handful of icy week-old slush off the ground and teasingly hoisting it over her hood. Rogue shrieks, ducking away before he can dump the unsavory concoction down her back (she knows he won’t but can’t help it). Remy laughs, loud and carefree and boyish, and something in that laugh flips a switch on Rogue’s mood.

She grabs her own handful of slush and, tugging her hood tighter around her face to block a counterattack, flings it in his direction.

“Oh, you’re _on_, _ma colombe,” _Remy cackles, countering with his own sad, watery imitation of a snowball. The fresh snow is coming down quicker now, and it begins to coat the less snowball-friendly sludge beneath. A bit of slush splatters against Rogue’s parka, staining its green plush darker, and she ducks to grab more ammunition. Soon they’re locked in bitter combat, not even cognizant of the decreasing visibility as they launch snowball after snowball. Both are coated in powder and panting after a few minutes, and neither is anywhere near winning.

That’s when Rogue goes in for the kill.

“It’s about time I won this,” she pants, scooping as much snow as he can into her arms and throwing herself at her distracted husband, shoving rather than throwing the powder every which way. Caught off-guard, Remy stumbles at her impact. His feet scramble for purchase but don’t find it.

“Okay, I yield!” Remy cries, his hands searching for anything he can use to catch himself. Rogue clutches at his jacket, losing her own footing in an unanticipated consequence of her attack.

“Not a chance,” she cackles as he falls backwards into the snow, pressing an imprint into the fresh powder. Rogue barely minds when, her own balance tied up in his, she collapses on top of him.

“Actually, I take that back. I count this is a win.” He smirks up at her and she rolls her eyes, cheeks coloring slightly.

“Shameless. That’s what you are,” she teases, brushing a quick kiss against his lips before she awkwardly hoists herself to her feet. Remy takes her outstretched hand and pulls him up, pulling her closer as soon as he’s on his feet. She rests her forehead against his.

“Still hate the cold,” Rogue mumbles, her smile betraying her.

“It’s like you never played in the snow as a kid,” Remy teases, brushing his thumb down her jawline.

“Shut up, Cajun, neither did you.”

It's such a simple thing, making the most of nature's caprices, and yet...it's novel. It's joyful and spontaneous and innocent and all of the things their childhoods weren't. It's nothing, and yet it's enough to make Rogue forget how much she hates the cold, enough to make Remy drop his suave facade and act like a man who hasn't spent most of his life carrying the weight of the world. It isn't just the lack of snow in the South that it remedies. 

It was youth - well, youth at heart, at very least. It was a person who brought out the side of each of them that relished every moment, the part of them that wasn't above tackling one's spouse in public to win an impromptu snowball fight. It was the joy of simple pleasures - no catch, no unspoken words. Just...the thrill of the chase and the lightness of two people in love - with life, with each other, with the intoxicating joy they find in one another. 

Rogue rests her head against Remy's shoulder after a few moments in silence. "Thanks," she mumbles. "That was...nice." 

"Told ya." 

* * *

**IV. Christmastime **

“How would you feel about us getting’ a proper Christmas tree?” Rogue asks out of the blue one December morning. They’ve slipped into an unused room at the mansion for a break in between classes when the thought crosses her mind.

“Uh...” Remy takes a sip of coffee, barely looking up from his phone.

“Remy.” Rogue turns her office chair to face his and pushes his phone down, lifting his chin. “I asked you a question.”

“And I answered,” he replies peevishly. “Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I guess I was just thinkin’. We didn’t really have any Christmas traditions growin’ up like other kids did, so…why not start some now? I know you’ve had trees before, and we always have ‘em at the mansion, but…might be nice to have our own, you know?”

“An’ you want a tree? For the penthouse?” 

“It’ll be fun,” she coaxes. “C’mon, think about it. We could go to a tree farm, pick one-“

“Ah, _non. _If we’re gonna get a Christmas tree, we’re gonna do it right.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Rogue asks.

He just smiles.

* * *

“I’m pretty sure this is illegal, Remy,” Rogue says, clutching a blanket around her shoulders.

“I’m a t’ief, _chére. _Illegal’s kinda my t’ing.”

“But this-“

“Trust me, _ma colombe,” _Remy insists. “Now…are we gonna do this the easy way, or-“

“You’re not charging a card, Rems. You’ll burn down the tree. Stealing a tree I can _maybe _overlook, but a forest fire is too far.”

“But _chére-“ _

_“No.” _

“Fine,” he sighs, rooting around in the trunk and emerging with an axe. “The t’ings I do for you…”

* * *

“There!” Rogue says, brushing off her hands after placing the star atop the tree. “See? Looks perfect!”

Remy appraises the tree skeptically – Rogue’s overenthusiastic applications of tinsel and hokey ornaments she’s collected (why she even_has_them when she’s never had a tree of her own is a mystery) make his eyes bleed – but he can’t help but smile at her joy. “Indeed it does,” he agrees, squeezing her shoulder. “Until the cats get at it, that is.”

* * *

** V. ** **Ice Cream **

Back-to-school is always a trial – in August, the heat is oppressive, the students moreso, and Remy rarely wants nothing more than to leave and go collapse somewhere quiet and air-conditioned and _completely deserted. _By the end of his last class two weeks into the new school year, he’s two seconds from collapsing on the spot. It doesn’t escape Rogue’s notice.

“Rough day?” she asks.

“Rough’s an understatement.”

“Heat don’t help,” Rogue agrees. “But I think I know just the thing.”

“AC and a four-hour nap?” Remy asks hopefully.

Rogue smirks. “Better, I promise.”

“I doubt that,” he says, trailing her as she takes him to the kitchen. It’s as stiflingly hot there as anywhere else (this part of the mansion has air conditioning, but the ovens effectively counter it) – until she throws open the doors to the walk-in freezer. It’s twenty-one degrees, according to the thermostat on the wall, and it feels like _heaven. _

“This’s the coldest spot on campus, by far,” Rogue says, her teeth beginning to chatter. “Needless to say, I hate it. _But…” _

She stops in front of a shelf of frozen chicken, shuffles around several parcels, and reveals a row of Ben & Jerry’s cartons spanning almost half of the wall-length shelf.

“Five-year-olds have it right. Nothing like ice cream at the end of a long day.”

“Ice cream?” his eyebrows rise in amusement. “Not what I expected, but I’ll take it.” He reaches for a carton of Cherry Garcia before Rogue bats his hand away.

“Don’t touch those,” she warns him. “All of the Cherry Garcia is Jean’s and she’ll probably kill you.”

He sighs, places it back on the shelf, and grabs a container of Peanut Butter Cup. Again, Rogue plucks it from his hands. “_Really?” _he protests.

“The Peanut Butter Cup is Ororu’s.”

“Oh, come on, am I the _only _one with no ice cream stash?”

“Pretty much. Half-Baked is Kitty’s, that weird flavor with bits of waffle cone in it is Kurt’s, Cookie Dough is Gabby’s, Chunky Monkey is Jubilee’s, Vanilla is Scott’s-“

“Of _course_it is,” Remy cackles in spite of himself.

“Fitting, isn’t it? Anyway.” She points to a collection of pints midway down the shelf. “Phish Food’s mine. Best flavor, so you really shouldn’t be complaining. Shall we?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, grabbing a pint and following Rogue out of the freezer. As she digs around in a silverware drawer for spoons, he notices that she’s shivering. “You good?”

“You know I don’t like the cold,” she replies.

“No problem.” He shucks off his sweat-soaked shirt and tosses it to her; she yelps, startled, before promptly dropping it.

“You’re supposed to give your girl your _jacket, _Remy, not your _shirt. _Also…this thing’s disgustin’.”

“I’m aware.” He smirks.

“Stop finding excuses to take your shirt off in inappropriate situations,” she chides teasingly, tossing him a spoon. “And help me eat this before it melts.”

It's enough sugar to make them both sick after half a pint each, but sometimes, they find, it's worth it. 

* * *

**+1 **

**Giving Back**

“This book is boring,” Audrey announces. “Can we have a different one?”

“Mm-hm,” Caroline agrees, her black pigtails bouncing as she nods resolutely.

“Hey, give it a chance, _petits,” _Remy tells them. “It’s good, I promise!”

“It is,” Lucien cuts in – he’s doubtless read it already, probably several times. He’s eight and already lives with his nose perpetually in a book.

“I doubt it.” Léonie, his twin, pokes her head into the younger girls’ bedroom. “Sounds boring to me.”

“You, too?” Remy says, throwing up his hands in mock-defeat. “Really? My own children, turnin' on me?”

“It’s not their fault that _The Little Prince _is boring,” Léonie replies, rolling her eyes.

“It is _not!” _

“Something goin’ on here?” Rogue asks, leaning in the doorway. Remy's face lights up at the sound of her voice and he glances up from the book, gesturing for her to join them. 

“Our children think _The Little Prince _is _boring,” _Remy tells her, pretending to be irked, as she sits next to him at the end of the bed. “Do you think it’s boring, _ma colombe? _No, right?”

She smiles softly and leans against his shoulder as her four children turn to her expectantly. “Well…it means a lot to your daddy,” she tells them. “But if you don’t like it…I can see why.”

“Wow.” Remy glares at her. “_Et tu, Anna?” _

She smirks. “Sorry, Cajun, but...outta the mouths of babes.”

“Well, then.” Remy turns back to his children. “Guess I’m gonna have to come up with a better story m’self, _non?” _

No one says anything, but Audrey nods eagerly. Rogue looks mildly ill, knowing where this is likely to go. 

“Lemme think,” he says. “Hmm…what about Paraiso? Wanna hear about-”

“NO!” Rogue shouts. Several of the children flinch at her sudden volume - it gets the point across. 

“I take that back,” he mutters. “Then…what about Mojo? I ever tell you ‘bout him?”

“TV guy?” Lucien asks, his eyes widening. “He’s scary.”

“Scary? I’m listening.” Léonie, who’d left the room, pokes her head back through the door.

"Remy, _no." _

"I don't think we have any 'appropriate' stories, _mon coeur," _Remy teases. "Do _you _have any ideas?" 

"Well..." 

As she thinks, he watches her - lip curled in concentration, eyes fixed on the ceiling - and his heart leaps. Sometimes he still can't believe it. 

  
He swore, with each of his children - whether biological (the twins) or adopted (everyone but) - to do everything in his power to give them the childhood he never had, but he hadn't known, truly, what that meant before moments like this became commonplace. Their ever-growing family is clustered around him for their bedtime story (which, to his mild disappointment, will apparently _not _be chapter 3 of _The Little Prince), _loved and content and safe, and the thought of it is so overwhelming that it rather bowls him over anew every time it occurs. It's everything he'd longed for when he was their age, and to see them experiencing it - to see Rogue striving to build that golden childhood for them alongside him - feels like completion. Without thinking, he presses a kiss to Rogue's hair, and she turns back to him, her eyes sparkling. 

"How 'bout the time I made you a pie and it got destroyed at that picnic?" 

Remy grins. "That'll work. Now, did I ever tell you..."

FINIS


End file.
